Captive
by VoxNexus
Summary: ...also known as "Plaything." Raoul "Tiego Rodriguez" Silva has made it his mission to crush Bond's spirit to the point of death or to have him succumb to becoming one of his deadliest partners; a rat that eats everyone else. [Not slash]
1. Chapter 1

**this is the end. i've drowned and dreamt this moment.  
**

* * *

The ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles dug into his skin, threatening to rub it down raw to the bone. The coarseness and tightness of his binds caused his flesh to itch, the fact that that part of him hadn't been allowed exposure to air worsened its condition, making it damp and shriveled with sweat. Blood patched a part of his hair where he'd been struck with the butt of a rifle and his naked body, except for his underwear, shivered more from the buckets of cold water that had been poured over him than from the gelid night temperatures.

The room he'd been tossed into was lit by the harsh beam of a flashlight, which was used to replace the light bulb that had blown out after his first few days. The floor was made up of wooden boards, scratched from the small claws of starving rats and mice. Sometimes he'd slip out of consciousness to catch sight of a man clad in black with a ski mask on standing in a corner of the room, staring out at him with a gun in his hands.

When his vision would fade back into darkness, he'd sometimes picture the fact of his closest friend and oddly enough, the face of the man who betrayed him.

He jerked awake and his scream was swallowed by the sound of him gulping water while simultaneously struggling for air. He clamped his mouth shut and tried not to breathe as gloved hands locked around his jaw and yanked his mouth open. His throat felt as if a match had been lit at the back of it and his chest burned as the air in his lungs was replaced with liquid.

They stopped and he immediately began sputtering back up some of the water that he'd swallowed as the bucket they'd been using clanged to the ground somewhere behind him. He wasn't sure how long it had been until he was finally able to take a full, uninterrupted breath without having to go into coughing, spasms right after. Nevertheless, he was able to do it and this time, they even allowed him some time to pace himself before using his hair as a handle to wrench his head back to resume the torture.

When they were done, they'd leave him alone with his own thoughts as he'd shift his hands as much as his binds would allow and dream of the man who betrayed him.

The world is as black as both its beginning and the end. It is void of life of shape and of form until the faint, familiar, features of a man begin to push past the darkness. This man looks out earnestly at the tortured soul and then gives him a gentle, pitying smile before fading back out into nothingness.

James tilts his head up as his mind leaves the dream and brings him back to the room he'd been kept in for an amount of time unknown to him. He catches himself glancing around as if expecting something about it to have changed, but expectedly finds that it remains the same dreary, hopeless place it was when he'd first arrived.

He hears the thick slabs of metal disengage from the door behind him as it's opened and his tormentors enter. They always come in pairs of two, masked and in black casual wear: denim jeans, black sweaters or hoodies with gloves. He feels something cool and sharp press into the back of his neck and then slide up his head, pushing up his hair as one of them walks around him. The other recruit eyes him as one would an insect before crushing it.

"Come to see me into the afterlife?" James suggests, his voice hoarse from an intensifying cold.

The one whose knife was still sheathed to his hip responded with a fist slamming into James' left cheek.

His head swings to the side from the impact and before he can react, a stunning, flash of pain rips through the other side of his cheek , sliding up the nerves in some of his teeth. He can hear his thoughts buzzing in his ears as the beating continues for at least another ten minutes. His tongue is soon covered in his own blood and he feels himself bite down on enamel that had been knocked off from a tooth or two.

The sound of him gurgling and grunting like some type of demented animal fills the chamber while a knife pricks at the skin of his scalp, taunting him.

He isn't sure when that session had ended, but he knew that it had when he awoke to cold water splashing over him for the umpteenth time.

He did not hear when Raoul walked into the room, but he sensed a depraved and inhuman presence standing infront of him, reveling in their triumph no doubt.

"I've been watching this," he says, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back slightly on his heels, struggling to contain the giddiness bubbling up from inside of him.

"My apologies if this is not my best performance," James wheezes, his expression grim, his tone indifferent, his eyes hollow.

James was too weak to look up, he was done with being forcibly fed dry, stale bread and cold barley. The last time they tried to shove it down his throat, he spat it into their covered faces, aiming for an eye but missing miserably. Aggravated and offended, the bowl of food was thrown on his face, where he was also spat on. Like a wet dog, he had to shake his head to get some of the sluice of food and gunk away from his eyes, lips and nostrils. Doing that alone was so exhausting that his body coaxed him to sleep afterwards.

They only fed him twice per day, giving him hours in-between to be mentally starved of any external stimulus or to have liters of freezing water wasted on his head. There was no consistent calculable rhythm to the torture, the only regularities was the use of water and a guard that would watch him crudely from somewhere in the room.

He was wondering when he'd get to see Raoul and guessed that Raoul had already seen him. The thirty-seven year old was both former military and a former inmate. He'd been a prisoner of war and a prisoner to the state and had learned the tricks of the trade with daunting efficiency.

_I've been watching this…_

"You're an intelligent man. So answer me this-," and before James could clearly register the turn of events, Raoul's fingers are clenched around the flesh of his forearms and the rogue agent is leaning down at him with an amused expression on his face.

"How much longer do you believe you can last?"

James can't muster up a reply and Raoul seems to interpret his silence as passive defiance when he reacts by squeezing the muscles in Bond's limp limbs. The MI6 traitor and infamous cyber-terrorist brings his face up near to Bond's, scrutinizing his demeanor and every flinching feature before pulling back, standing to his full height once more. He doesn't appear as satisfied as he had been when he first set eyes on his latest project.

"Your last days will be most, interesting," Raoul cracks a smile, one so wide and toothy it's as if his visage has cracked.

He walks behind James and the tell-tale sound of the door opening, guardsmen filing out and the lock sliding into place follows the short lived scene and Bond is left to his thoughts once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**hold your breath and count to ten. feel the earth move and then, hear my heart burst, again.**

* * *

The water continues to pour, endlessly and the only change is that his ropes are cut off and he's given five minutes to stretch his stiff legs and gain some coordination before having a bag shoved over his head and tied to his neck. His bleeding, welted wrists are cuffed and he's led out the room with a barrel pressed into his spine. The harsh, frigid weather bites into his skin and he can barely breathe in the tightly placed hood.

He hears a door open and there's a slight echo as he's escorted down a staircase and guided into a room where his arms are yanked above his head and he's shackled to a low beam. He hears the sound of a faucet dripping and then something being dragged across the floor before a blast of hot water beats against his chest and legs. He holds his breath as they spray him over his hooded face and the material clamps onto his mouth and nose, making it impossible to breathe.

They stop the flow of water and James hears himself gasp for air as they depart, their footsteps echoing out into the distance as they bound up the stairs. James shifts his feet uneasily, trying to add some sensation to them and decrease the tingling numbness shooting up from his soles to his thighs. The floor is slippery from water and stings the cuts at the bottom of his toes. He tries to use his arm strength to hold himself up, but the beam is so low that comfortably standing at his full height is not an option.

He forces himself to calm and controls his breathing, trying to make sense of his surroundings despite the sensory deprivation. The floor feels different, the texture isn't as smooth as the wooden floorboards in the other torture chamber. This one is stone cold, slick and hard. He could also tell from the distance in which he had to travel to be secured to the beam, as well as the noise made from the guards, that this room is much larger. He could very well be in an underground bunker or the basement level of a building. The stairway leading down gave that small detail away.

He tries to budge the beam, hoisting his body up as best as he can before letting his arms go lax, releasing all his weight onto the beam to see if it'll still hold him. It shakes only slightly, a subtle tremor that would go unnoticed to anyone else. James thinks that somewhere along the beam, probably underneath it's base or at the joint that merges it to a wall, it's beginning to rust and weaken. He also guesses, that he'll probably die from torture and neglect or old age before it decays enough for him to break it using his depleting strength.

He bends his legs and groans as he stretches himself back out again. It seems for him that his only form of exercise will be squats and twists, but he prefers this over having to sit in the same spot, completely immobile, even if it means having no sight.

He lowers himself back down again before slowly pulling himself up with the help of the beam. If given enough time, he might be able to regain most of his upper body strength and some power in his legs to make a decent escape attempt. An attempt, since at this rate, nothing is certain.

* * *

The hose spraying continues and it sometimes feels as though his skin is going to be seared right off. He resists the urge to jerk away from the aim of the water but finds himself writhing under its unbearable heat anyway. His torturers remain silent as they take turns abusing him, they move swiftly and silently before he feels a gloved fist slam beneath his ribs or crush the muscles in the side of his stomach. A knee is driven into his lower abdomen before an elbow is rammed below his sternum. He dry heaves into the hood on his head and can taste his own breath.

Some one rings their hands around his throat and before he reaches unconsciousness they allow him to breathe, just to punch or kick him at his core. This is done continuously until he vomits into the hood and feels himself suffocating on it. His fingers twitch and his shoulders flex as he tries desperately to take in clean air. He feels the rope tying the hood to his throat loosen and it's suddenly pulled from his head.

The room is lit by large fluorescent lights paneled into the ceiling and James cringes back and squints his eyes just as water spews onto his face, spraying off the vomit dribbling down to his chin. He winces back and turns his head to the side and the hose is turned off for a moment so he can catch his breath. The hood that was on his head is filled with water, closed and shaken before being turned inside out and drained. The man wrings and whips out the water before roughly shoving it back over and onto James' head. A knot is tied in the rope to keep it from falling off.

Another fist is pumped into his gut. James keels over into the punch.

* * *

The cycle continues: he's showered in scalding hot water, beaten, choked and after one hour seams into another, they'd remove his hood and force cold oatmeal down his throat. Starving and needing some source of nutrients, he accepts without resistance or retaliation. His skin soon begins to feel burnt as it breaks out into blisters as an effect of the water and the wearing and tearing of his skin from the physical violence. They dab a cloth on his festering cuts and eventually, a stinging cream would be applied.

James was glad for the hood covering, for it hid his shame when he wept.


	3. Chapter 3

**so overdue, i owe them. swept away, i'm stolen.**

* * *

Something sharp, thin and intrusive lunged into the carotid artery of his neck and soon enough, it seemed as if shards of lead were clotting his veins. There was an unwanted, obnoxious pounding resonating inside his head and carrying throughout the remainder of his body. After trudging through a few seconds, he eventually lost control over his body and it felt as ifevery inch of him was being weighted down by something meant to test his strength.

He was aware and awake, although in no conditioning to move himself. Debilitated and forcibly immobile, the men around him unlocked the tight pair of handcuffs holding him up and tucked their arms underneath his armpits to tend to his weight. No one bothered to level his head as it involuntarily swung back, causing the hood he wore to hover closer to his mouth and nostrils, pressing into the space, causing him to have to huff out to get room to breathe.

He was held up a bit more as they part carried, part dragged him up the stairs, the men behind him nudging his feet and pressing their gloved palms into the sore column of his spine to keep him from tumbling back onto them. He felt the atmosphere in the air shift as a door was pried open and he was shuffled onto another floor, one that felt heated and near welcoming, especially with the warm, classical tune filling the room; one that he sensed was spacious from how the music carried.

He was led to a chair and shoved down onto the wooden seat, he was panting into the hood like an overheated dog while blood teased out of his scarred chest. The men had thought to amuse themselves with games involving cigarette butts being snuffed out into his thighs, batons smacking into his back and stomach and then there was their preferred delight: carving light lines into the firm flesh of his chest. Bond gritted his teeth throughout all these advents and felt a small sense of pride that he barely gave up a grunt through them. And now he sat: naked, vulnerable and starving.

The torture had gone on seemingly so endlessly that his body barely had time to remember that he was starving. It is only until now that his stomache knew to growl. He gulped and felt some one jerk his arms back and slap cuffs onto his wrists behind the backing of his chair. He felt his calves being tied down to the legs of the chair and the rope noosed around his neck lost its strain so that the hood could be pulled from his head.

His eyes didn't need to adjust much since there wasn't much to adjust too. The room was poorly lit, intentionally he guessed, with dying bulbs that let off a grim, murky cast of light that seemed almost green. The floor was rugged all around, colored with a mix of a deep, unattractive purple alongside some browns and greys. Above him was a large, crystral chandelier that had carvings rendering it antique. There was a humbly sized desk covered with mostly technical equipment: multiple computer screens and portable hard drives, some empty cups of coffee, a carton of take-out that he could smell all the way over from where he sat…Behind the desk was a young brunette wearing black framed glasses in a deep blue T-shirt. Then Bond's gaze landed on the man who sat across from him.

"You look well…," the man said, there was an undertone of laughter in his voice.

Silva's hair was perfectly groomed back, blonde and sleek. He wore a ring that was decorated with a shimmering diamond and his features were less sharp because of the shadows falling over his expression. He was dressed quite casually, something atypical for him. He wore a white T-shirt with black shorts and despite the wretched lighting, Bond caught sight of the blonde strands of hair making its way up his arm and legs. Silva unconsciously licked his lips.

"I hope my men weren't too troublesome for you," Silva said, eying the tired agent with a hint of suggestive amusement.

"M trained me well," Bond commented nonchalantaly.

Silva nodded in agreement before reaching into his short's pocket to pull draw out a box of cigarettes. He removed one and held it out to Bond. Bond nodded and Silva slipped it in-between James' lips before lighting it for him. They sat in respectable silence while Bond inhaled before Silva took the cigarette from him and set it down on a small stool beside his seat. Bond exhaled a smoke screen of fumes that hid his mouth, his gaze gave way to an impending question he chose to hold onto.

" I don't smoke," Silva explained, "It's bad for the skin."

Bond took his time to process his thoughts, the details of the room, his aching condition, before speaking again.

"So, Tiego, what do you want with me…?"

Silva didn't reply immediately, rather, he glanced up at the ceiling as if gazing out into the distance or revelling in a memory that he couldn't let go of.

"I can't tell you," he said.

Bond's expression became inquisitive as he glared straight at Silva before canting subtly to the side while resisting the urge to smirk

"Can't?" he emphasized, trying to get Silva to see how foolish the word sounded coming from him.

Silva, understanding what Bond was implying, shot him a dark look.

"Yes, you heard me Double-_Oh_-Seven. Can't as in: _You still belong to her_," he explained, the last sentence having a pitch to it that echoed loathing and contempt.

"M," Bond suspected out loud.

Silva didn't say anything, he instead waited a beat before snapping his fingers. Suddenly hands were working aroud Bonds wrists and feet, removing his binds and forcing him to his feet.

"Take him to the bunker," Silva ordered tersely.

Bond tried to catch one more glance of the traitor agent but some one slapped the back of his head and a gun was pressed into his back, encouraging him to look away. The hood was tied back down around his neck as he was escorted down into the depths of his torturers hiding grounds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Let the sky fall, let it crumble. We will stand tall, face it all together at Skyfall.**

* * *

Death. Who in their right mind would wish for it? Then again, James Bond was not in his right mind. The torture Raoul had been subjecting him to surpassed the extent that he'd been schooled by British Intelligence to tolerate. Yet, despite more than a decade of hardening experience in the field, SIS-MI6 simulations of pain and devastation, had not forged James into the unyielding patriot he had once thought he was. Raoul's masked crusaders had inserted an earpiece into his right hearing canal while he lay unconscious in a room that held an offsetting resemblance to a bunker. James was sure that each new setting meant exposure to a new aspect of Silva's twisted game. It were as if James was experiencing different levels of the cyber-terrorist's baseless depravity. The change in environment being an indicator of a cycle of blood, sweat and very few tears coming to an end just to give birth to another one. One of a much more grisly, psychological nature.

The flesh toned bud stuck in James' ear revealed its purpose during a session where a blowtorch was brought to the soles of his feet and began to scorch away the skin of his heels. Raoul apparently suggested to sear the skin of his fingertips as well while one of the guardsman threatened to pull out Bond's nails while doing so. As were all the other sessions, he had been made immobile and forcibly incompetent. Fighting back was not an option when they had drugged him with a neurotoxin that paralysed him. Unfortunately for Bond, this paralysing, neutralizing, narcotic did nothing to lessen the pain. He could feel every second of everything being done to him but could not do a thing about it.

Between sessions and excruciatingly aching feet, Bond was fed well. His bunker was stacked with shelves and vaults of preserved and canned foods. He ate lima beans and cold noodles. There was a battery run freezer with frozen meats and a fridge filled with tofu, soy, milk and jugs of water. Most of the milk was stale and smelt, some becoming as thick as cheese. Much of the tofu was useless and inedible and the water tasted bitter, although it did help sooth his sore throat. If he had the energy and didn't collapse onto the low, mattress-less bed he was given, he'd exercise. When he'd miraculously have energy to spare, he'd try to force out a hundred crunches, and just as many push-ups or pull-ups, although his body could barely muster the strength to do half of each. After somehow convincing his trembling, weakened self to push through a fitness regime that he assembled in his late prime, he'd eat. Not much obviously. Noodles of course. And lima beans.

At one point, the agent had crumpled onto the floor from exhaustion and passed out into a slumber before his head even met the ground. Its as this point, when he's pressed his forehead onto a floor slick with evidence of his strain, sweat and sometimes blood - his tormentors would come. All armed with semi-automatic rifles, and holstered handguns or pistols, their eyes peeking out at him from their masks, and they'd order him up.

- Or yank him from off his thin bed sheet and throw him to the ground before tying him down to a chair. He wondered what they planned to use, the thought crossed his mind more than once and the thought left him feeling ill and empty. They never touched him in a way that didn't cause pain. It was always pain, beads of blood rippling down his calf, a red ribbon released by the edge of a knife. Or the butt of a gun slamming into his jaw, chipping his teeth. Sometimes it was the blowtorch, but they rarely touched him with it, that was more or less a game of chicken probably thought up by Silva while he sipped tea in the morning. The soldiers that smoked thought it would be funny if they began using Bond as an ashtray, blunting the ends of their cigarettes by pressing it into his skin. They bonded over Bond grunting into his gritted teeth.

And then Silva finally revealed the purpose for the small, flesh toned bud inserted into James' ear and it were as if the M loyalist's conscience had turned against him.

"_Oh, Bonddd...!"_

James seethed at the sound of Silva speaking to him in such a childish, patronizing tone. Nearly everything the blonde spoke wove rage deeper into James. The agent knew that if the chance presented itself, he'd ring his hands around Silva's throat and watch as the life in his eyes would fade away into hell.

"Morning, I hope you had a good night's rest. I also hope my men haven't been too hard on you..."

James could nearly imagine Silva pouting in an exaggerated show of false empathy before it stretched into an amused smirk. The filthy animal.

"I'm going to be spending the day with you..._in here." _

Silva was in his head. He was literally - .Head.

That devious, cackling subconscious pang of doubt and anger. He was there to become _that voice_ and he would remain there until James thought Silva's words and became like Silva. A filthy animal: a rat.

"I'm here now. There is nothing to be scared of," Silva gently reassured, as if he were a father addressing his son.

"What makes you think I'm scared?" James asked the man who had intruded on his mental space.

"Because you've never experienced anything like this agent. We all fear what we do not know and cannot predict."

"I assure you Silva, you are _very _predictable," James parried, allowing himself a moment of his older, usual smugness.

The cool, humored voice in his head remained silent for a minute.

"Good day James. Try not to get your cigarette burns infected."

The next day, they came again, to make up for lost time and wasted creativity no doubt. Heavy duty work boots clamored over the floor, each step weighted with anger. James heard them as they marched down the stairs and walked over to his sleeping area, a gun barrel poked him in his back and he barely got a chance to turn completely around before he was lurched from his bed and partly dragged to a chain situated near the center of the room.

The men threw him to the ground and he hit it like a hard sack of flour. He clenched his jaw and pressed his palm against his stomach as he pushed himself up on all fours. The men backed up, giving him some room, and stared at James with casual interest.

Uneasily, Bond lifted himself up onto his feet and looked at the men as an equal. Albeit, a battered, bruised and bloodied equal, but an equal nonetheless.

They would not tie him to a chair. Or kick him while he was down. Nor tie him to a beam or pole to play hang-man with his flesh. Today was a different day. One of equal opportunity.

"You know what this is about, hmm? Don't you?" Silva cooed in Bond's ear.

Bond stared back the man, letting his resentment show without restraint, without any potential or impending mercy.

"I know you hate being weak James. I also know you _especially_ hate being weak and helpless. Although, I must admit-," Silva paused for a moment and James could imagine the flamboyant blonde either checking his manicured nails or biting back his lip. "Weak and helpless does suit you well."

James ignored him and charged forward, swinging a fist to the left, trying to catch one of the guards in the jaw but missed by more than an inch as the man swerved away from the punch. James felt some one hit him in his stomach and an elbow come down on his back. He landed on his knees but quickly stood back up again and tried to crack a blow to a man's legs with his own feet, but his attempt was used against him and his leg was grabbed and he was brought back down onto the floor. He arched his back in as a sharp, agonizing pain shot through him.

The men laughed quietly among themselves, clearly getting a quick out of Bond's small show of bravado and somewhat renewed strength.

"Get back up Double-Oh-Seven. What if M is watching?"

James internally swore as he struggled to his feet before summoning the remainder of his energy to attack one of the men by pulling his head down and kneeing him repeatedly in the stomach before shoving him aside with a sound of rage. He then turned onto another, only seeing masks and soulless gazes, as he plunged two fingers into the eyes of another one of his victims. The man let out a yowl as he took a few steps back with his eyes covering his face. Some one grabbed James by the back of his neck and threw him to the ground. The heel of some one's dirty blood nabbed him in his chest and he bulked against the pain. He could feel his face heat up and redden as gloved hands clasped onto his throat and _squeezed._

"Your hope. It's touching, but it's not what I want. Not yet," James heard Silva say from his earpiece before the agent slipped into unconsciousness.


End file.
